


Sounds of (after)life and love

by Tamloid



Series: Reflections in a Mirror [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Halls of Mandos, Husbands, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Marriage, Married Couple, Naked Cuddling, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamloid/pseuds/Tamloid
Summary: Bilbo enjoys a rare moment of quiet in Mahal’s Halls.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Reflections in a Mirror [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006104
Comments: 14
Kudos: 90





	Sounds of (after)life and love

**Author's Note:**

> This includes a brief reference to some of [Porphyrios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios)’s additions to the Mirror-verse: The Waterlight Bridge, the Halls of Music, and an encounter from “Meeting the In-Laws”. The entire fic is an excellent exploration of Bungo and Thorin and I highly recommend you go read it (and literally everything else they write!).

Mahal’s Halls of Waiting were never truly quiet, Bilbo had noticed. In the four months since he and Thorin had reunited in the Great Smith’s forge, Thorin had shown him many wondrous places inside the great mountain halls of the dwarven afterlife. Each wonder rang in his ears.

During the daytime, every public space in the Mountain was filled with the sounds of dwarrow living in close quarters: the stamp of booted feet dancing in rhythm, the clanging of hammers on metal, the delighted laughter of tiny dwarflings playing, the cacophony of great warriors in the feasting halls. In life, as he grew older and weary and melancholy, Bilbo had dreamt of another life where Thorin lived and Bilbo never returned to the Shire. In those dreams, Erebor-restored sounded just like this place.

The Hall of Mirrors came the closest to true quiet when he was out and about in the Mountain. The unspoken understanding—that the vast chamber of Mirrors was a decidedly personal space in the middle of a public location—enforced respectful silence inside the room, but the rest of the sounds of Mountain life still trickled into the background. The Waterlight Bridge sparkled and twinkled in every imaginable color but the thundering waterfalls wouldn’t let one forget the natural power that created the delicate visual phenomenon. The Halls of Music were built to enhance sound and carry the softest whispers to every corner of the space. The rooms resonated with melodies spun by great dwarven songsmiths, each voice and viola and harp played as perfectly as the next. 

(And if Bilbo had a special fondness for the Halls of Music because he and Thorin would sneak down during the dark hours of night so that Thorin could hold him and sing the beautiful, haunting song that had first tempted Bilbo out his door...well, who could blame him? They had a lot of time to make up for.)

Bilbo absolutely loved it here. He would always treasure Yavanna’s Garden for its warmth and sunlight and perfumed air and sense of _home_ —he was, after all, a hobbit. But Mahal’s Halls were steady and sure and comforting, all things Bilbo had never had during his life and didn’t know he was missing until he found it here. The Halls were imbued with a sense of history, with self-assuredness, with purpose, with contentment. The afterlife of his husband’s people made Bilbo feel that he could be himself in a way that he had never really been able to in the Shire. Here, he wasn’t somehow _less_ for not being as respectable as he could be, or for not fathering a gaggle of faunts, or for still dreaming _yearning_ for something beyond the Shire’s borders. He felt that, for once in his existence, being himself was enough.

Yes, Bilbo thought as he opened the door to his and Thorin’s rooms in the Mountain, Mahal’s Halls were certainly peaceful, but they were never truly _quiet_. So when the door closed behind him and sealed away the rest of the world, Bilbo leaned against it and savored one, brief moment of true silence.

A deep sigh of contentment and small splashes from deeper into their rooms broke the silence, but instead of being disappointed, Bilbo just grinned. He would never complain when those particular noises cut through the rare moments of quiet. 

He crossed the sitting room into their bedroom where a fire was already warming the cool stone beneath his feet. Bilbo shucked off his dirt-stained shirt and trousers and made his way to the open bathroom door in his smallclothes. He inhaled a lungful of warm humid air scented with, _hmm, lavender and chamomile, Thorin must be sore from the practice field_ , and made his way to the small basin of cool water sitting on the ledge against the nearest wall. Bilbo meticulously scrubbed away the dirt from under his fingernails, rinsed his hands, and turned toward the sunken bathtub.

He took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Thorin lay chest deep in warm water that shimmered with a hint of soothing aromatic oils, head tilted back against the edge, hair down, and eyes closed. _Thorin is beautiful,_ Bilbo thought, not for the first time. Bilbo had spent five decades of his life never knowing the person before him and another eight decades alone after losing him. By the grace of the Valar they’d been given this time after death together and Bilbo would never take it for granted.

Thorin, eyes still closed, sighed again and broke Bilbo’s contemplations. “Are you going to join me, my love, or simply watch?”

Bilbo smiled and hummed in reply. “While the offer to watch is certainly tempting, I do believe that I will join you. My knees and back didn’t appreciate my gardening efforts today.” Thorin’s eyes opened to slits as Bilbo removed his one remaining garment and stepped down into the bath on the opposite side from where his husband lounged. Bilbo lowered himself into the water with a groan of happiness, twisted around, and settled his bum between Thorin’s thighs. The water that barely reached Thorin’s pectorals fully covered Bilbo’s shoulders, a fact he greatly enjoyed as warmth seeped into his tightened muscles.

Bilbo squirmed as he settled his back against Thorin’s chest and his head against Thorin’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He felt Thorin place a gentle kiss on his temple and wrap one arm around his waist beneath the water. 

For a few minutes there was near silence, the two of them slowly breathing and the water gently lapping against their skin the only sounds. Bilbo enjoyed being able to just _be_ with Thorin for a little while and let his mind drift for a while, knowing that Thorin would keep him afloat.

Eventually Bilbo drew himself out of his light doze. Without opening his eyes, he murmured, “How was sparring today, my dear?”

“It was good,” Thorin said, and Bilbo could practically hear the grin in his voice. “Unexpected, but good.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“Ori,” Thorin explained with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since he, Balin, and Oín arrived here, but Ori’s battle skills take me by surprise every time we spar. I keep expecting the shy youngling I had known and forget that Balin chose Ori to help retake Khazad-dûm for more than his skills as a scholar.”

Bilbo joined him in a chuckle. Ori had certainly given Bilbo quite the surprise when they had finally met again. Like Thorin, Bilbo would always think of him as a young lad, but here in the Halls Ori’s appearance was that of a warrior in his prime. In the afterlife, Bilbo’s body had been returned to how he’d looked at his happiest, as had Thorin’s. It never failed to delight him that Thorin had been happiest during the time that Bilbo had known him.

Ori, too, was restored to his happiest moment in life. This, he’d learned, was the Ori who had been head scribe and royal advisor in Khazad-dûm, one of the fiercest warriors that had helped reclaim (temporarily, at least) their ancestral homeland from orcs. His build was still lanky, but he had whipcord muscles that rivaled his eldest brother in strength and a swift-footedness that was on par with Nori’s. His hair remained the burnished copper of Bilbo’s memory—and he’d felt a pang of regret that Ori hadn’t grown old enough for silver to begin to creep in—and his full beard was braided in a pattern that reminded him of Dori. By all accounts Ori had grown into a stunning specimen of dwarven beauty, though obviously Bilbo’s tastes leaned in a very singular direction. Bilbo was glad that some things about his friend hadn’t changed, though. If it hadn’t been for the hand-knit cardigan and cowl Bilbo doubted he would have recognized the lad.

And with Dwalin not yet arrived in Mahal’s Halls, Ori was Thorin’s new favorite sparring partner. From what Bilbo could tell, the two seemed fairly well matched in skill, Ori’s warhammer to Thorin’s sword or axe, a testament to how Ori had grown after Bilbo had gone home.

“How many times did he manage to beat you this time, O Mighty Warrior King?” Bilbo asked teasingly.

“Three out of our five bouts,” Thorin replied with good-natured cheer. “The last one was hard won for him, if I might defend my fearsome reputation.”

“Is that so,” Bilbo quipped. “Do I need to worry about you being swept off your feet by a strapping young warrior in knitwear?”

Thorin laughed again and wrapped his other arm around Bilbo’s waist beneath the water, giving him a little squeeze. “Never. I am, as I have always have been and ever will be, entirely yours, Kurdel.”

Bilbo hmmphed and snuggled closer to the warm heat at his back. “Good. As it should be.”

“Besides,” Thorin continued, “I have a feeling Ori has his eyes set on another. Toward the end, he seemed to be showing off for one of our audience.”

“Really?” Bilbo asked with an encouraging lilt to his voice. Hobbit and dwarrow cultures had in common a few things they greatly valued: family, food, and a love of gossip.

“Yes, and it seems like his interest might be returned, if what I saw was true,” Thorin said. “Frerin certainly has never been so very interested in watching _me_ spar, after all. And my brother was paying _very_ close attention to our bouts,” he said with the anticipatory glee of soon being able to tease his brother about his love life instead of being the subject of such teasing.

“My goodness,” Bilbo said, taking a moment to think about the pairing. “Well, that’s not what I had expected from your rather flighty brother, but I see how he and Ori would be good for each other. Perhaps not Ori as he was when I knew him in life, but the Ori of Khazad-dûm...yes, that might work.”

“I believe so, too,” Thorin said, “which is why I am not so terribly disappointed to lose so many matches to Ori. They might not be Ones,” he added with a little kiss to Bilbo’s ear, “but they would make a good pair.”

Bilbo sighed with the touch. “Yes, and I imagine your mother will be thrilled whenever they come together.”

Thorin nodded against the back of Bilbo’s head. “And how was my mother today? Did you survive the interrogation?”

Bilbo released one of Thorin’s arms to reach down and lightly pinch the outside of his thigh. “She wasn’t so bad as all of that,” he admonished his husband. “She merely wants to know more about the strange creature to whom Mahal bound her son’s heart and soul. Questions there may have been, but it was hardly anything like what my father put you through.”

And today really had been quite pleasant, Bilbo thought. Belladonna and Bungo hadn’t exactly been overjoyed at the sight of his unrespectable self and his not-a-hobbit spouse, but Frís had been very welcoming. Bilbo had spent a large part of the past four months in the Mountain rather than the Garden and had met many of Thorin’s family members before today. It had usually been in the form of family dinners, tours of favorite places within the Halls, or sneaking into the kitchens to steal the Head Foodsmith’s secret spice cake recipe (three guesses as to which two younglings Bilbo had to thank for _that_ adventure).

Regardless, today was the first time he had spent time with Frís alone. The two of them had tended Frís’s herb garden on one of the outer terraces of the mountain. In life, she’d told him, Frís had cultivated herbs to help supply the Royal Healers in Erebor, one of two crafts to which she had dedicated herself. Bilbo hadn’t even known that dwarrow _could_ dedicate themselves to such a craft, and Frís had smiled and explained that while it wasn’t common it wasn’t unheard of either. And really, there were perks to being Queen, she had said with a twinkling eye. There truly was no need for healing herbs in Mahal’s Halls, just like there wasn’t a need for the weaponsmiths to make swords or the foodsmiths to cook for their feasts—Mahal provided, after all. But crafting brought joy and so Frís now used her herbs to create teas and herbal supplements and even the therapeutic oils that currently scented their bathwater.

Bilbo and Frís had spent a few hours working in the garden and along the way there certainly had been a number of probing questions about Bilbo’s family, his hobbies, and what had brought him on the Quest for Erebor—Bilbo had blushed when he related _that_ particular detail. 

And she had oh so many questions about Frodo! Frís seemed overjoyed at the thought of another grandson to spoil and dote on. She wasn’t dissuaded by Bilbo’s explanation that Frodo wasn’t really his son, or even his nephew really, just a cousin that had helped Bilbo as much as he’d helped Frodo. But Bilbo obviously wasn’t able to say any of that with conviction, because Frodo really was the son of his heart. _Inùdoê kurdu,_ Frís had gently explained, for such a thing was well known to dwarrow.

She had seemed pleased at the explanation that it would probably take Frodo a while to join them in the afterlife. Frodo hopefully had quite some time ahead of him in the Undying Lands before arriving in the Garden, and Bilbo hoped that he spent the time healing his soul and doing whatever made him happiest. It was Bilbo’s obvious love and pride in Frodo, tempered by his guilt at what he’d been put through, that seemed to settle something in Frís. The rest of the afternoon had passed much more informally after that.

A soft kiss on his neck brought Bilbo out of his head and back to the present moment. “Sorry, love. Yes, I quite enjoyed my time with your mother in her garden,” he finally answered Thorin’s question. “It was lovely to be outdoors for a bit and your mother seems quite delighted that will get to meet Frodo one day, once he leaves Valinor’s shores for the Garden.”

“Hmm, is that where you were?” Thorin asked. “I had always meant to ask, but it seemed less important after you found me.” Bilbo hummed a question in inquiry and Thorin gave his neck another kiss. 

“I was watching in our Mirror one day, a few weeks before you arrived here so dramatically—” Bilbo mumbled “hypocrite” under his breath and Thorin shushed him and nipped the point of his ear for the interruption, making Bilbo quietly gasp. “As I was saying, _dramatically._ I remember seeing you and Frodo and Frodo’s companions near a dock. And Gandalf and Elrond were there, and someone who I think was the Lady of the Golden Woods. And you walked towards a boat, which I found to be strange given your dislike of water travel—”

“Not _all_ water travel, my love, just barrels,” Bilbo interjected, but Thorin ignored him.

“—and just as you stepped onto the boat, the Mirror went blank. I couldn’t see you in it any more than I could in any of the other Mirrors. I admit I went a bit frantic trying to figure out where you had gone, why the Mirror had forsaken our bond. The Maker refused to see me and none of my family had any answers. As far as we could tell this hadn’t happened to a Mirror before. I don’t know what happened to you after that, where you went. I sat by the MIrror for weeks hoping you’d appear again.” Thorin sounded so sad as he described losing his last connection to his One.

Bilbo loosened Thorin’s arms and twisted his body around. He straddled Thorin’s thighs so that he could kiss him properly and rest their foreheads together. “I’m so sorry, my love,” Bilbo whispered. “I’m sorry that I worried you. The boat was taking us—Frodo and I and the other Ringbearers—to the Undying Lands. They hoped that the darkness and weariness in our souls would be cleansed there, and for Frodo’s sake I dearly hope they were right.”

“As for me,” Bilbo paused, “It is hard to say. My mind seemed lighter once I was on the boat, clearer, but also less tethered. I remember the day we cast off and I remember the uninterrupted expanse of the western sea, and I remember Frodo smiling his first true smile in what seemed like a lifetime. And then I went to sleep that evening and woke up in the Garden. I never saw the Undying Lands myself, but Frodo is still there and, Eru willing, will remain there for a while. He deserves the rest.” Thorin nodded in agreement.

“But given what you told me,” Bilbo continued, “I imagine that whatever power allowed that boat to reach the shores of the Undying Lands also blocked the Mirror’s sight. And after that, I died and was reacclimating in Yavanna’s Garden and then I was trying to make my way to you. I am sorry that I put you through that grief,” he said with another kiss, deeper and more full of feeling than before. “But I am here now. _We_ are here, together, and nothing shall ever part us again.”

“I know, amrâlimê, I know.” Thorin kissed him again and again and then allowed Bilbo to turn back around and settle back-to-front again. “Thank you for explaining, Bilbo, but you do not need to apologize for seeking peace at the end of your days. Nor do you need to apologize for the limitations of the Mirror’s magic, nor for my state of mind at not being able to see you anymore. After all, you spent much more time than I with the same grief and you refused to accept my apologies for that,” Thorin tried to tease.

Unexpectedly, Bilbo felt his mood lighten despite the talk of grief and death and some of the darker moments of his life. He grabbed Throrin’s arms and wrapped them around himself again and _wriggled_ behind just so, delighting in making Thorin’s breath hitch. “And rightly so, my dear,” Bilbo teased, picking up what was becoming a familiar playful argument. He was still amazed that they had the time now to develop such things between them.

Not long after reuniting the two of them had had a rather memorable argument trying to apologize to each other for the events leading to Thorin’s death and neither one was willing to accept the other’s apologies. It had devolved into a rather silly and ridiculous fight and after a while going around in circles they’d broken down in laughter that was more cathartic than a thousand overdue apologies could be. A lifetime of introspection and healing made the past easier to reconcile, Bilbo thought, and acceptance helped soften the edges of painful memories.

“If we spent all our time apologizing for the hurts of years past, we’d be going at it until the remaking of the world,” Bilbo continued. “And I can think of much better things to do,” he said with another deliberate shift of his weight.

Thorin pulled Bilbo tighter against him and placed another lingering kiss on his neck. Bilbo could feel Thorin half-hard against his lower back and felt his own interest stir in response. “Peace, my love, peace,” Thorin whispered into his neck. “For now, just enjoy this moment with me.”

Bilbo released his impatience with a sigh and leaned farther into Thorin’s chest. The enticing slide of Thorin’s skin against his, the safety of his embrace, the gentleness and love of his touch...there were many things in this Mountain that Bilbo would never get tired of, never take for granted, but these were some of the most precious. So Bilbo contented himself with spending a little while longer in the bath surrounded by warm scented water, Thorin’s love, and tranquil silence. There would be time for everything else later.

**Author's Note:**

> Alt title: Splish splash, they were takin’ a bath ;)
> 
> Here’s a fic that attempts to do many things: give me practice at writing dialogue, explain why the Mirror went blank, do more with Frís. Ori just sort of happened, and Frerin...well I dunno. Sorry to the Dwori lovers (of which I am one), no Dwori here. Frori? You decide.
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Kurdel = heart of all hearts  
> Inùdoê kurdu = son of my heart  
> (or at least I think I managed to piece it together right)  
> Amrâlimê = my love


End file.
